“What the fuck?” Brett gawked at his missing fingertip. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?”
Good question.
What the fuck, indeed.
No worries. Nothing to see here.
Just protecting my antidote.
Surely, protection of private property laws will hold up in a court of law.
“Nooo.” He shed fat tears onto his injured hand, holding it up to the light. “Not Palmela Handerson.”
What a shame that my aim never failed me.
I’d hit bullseye. The tip of his middle and index finger. Not enough to cause real damage other than some missing tissue and nerves.
Pity.
A little to the right, and I wouldn’t have to hear him screech.
“What the fuck, bro?” He clutched his wrist, keeling over and firing out an anguished cry. “You fucking sliced me, man. Sliced me!”
I did, and I wish I could do it again.
Junior patted the floor, trying to find his discarded fingertips. They’d splattered onto the tiles like confetti.
Even now, blood gushed from the jagged cavity they’d left behind.
This marked the first time I’d tossed a knife at a target outside the practice range. The first time that I’d hit anything with this particular knife—Dad’s gift to me—ever.
Even though I knew the paperwork was going to be a hassle, I did not regret it.
“What the fuck.” Brett Junior progressed to screaming, stomping in place, staring at the fountain of blood spurting from his fingers.
Guess he decided not to look for his missing organs, after all.
“The fuck is—you fucked with the wrong person. I told you not to get anywhere near her. She’s mine.”
“It was just a friendly squeeze.”
“What a coincidence.” I strolled forward, collected the knife, and waved it before him, pinching the handle. “Just a friendly squeeze. Now your right hand won’t be of much use, even to jerk off to the thought of her.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“And telling them what?” I wiped the blade off on the edge of his shirt and tucked it into its holder. “That you came into my house high off your ass and sexually harassed my staff?”
“I’m losing blood,” he whimpered, stomping out of the kitchen as loud as humanly possible, hugging his wrist to the Gucci emblem on his chest. “Dad! Daddy!”
Finally, I spared a glance at Farrow.
She’d kept quiet the entire time, assessing me in that way of hers that made me worry that she could untangle all my secrets from my façades.
I yawned. “What?”
“You’ve lost control.”
“I’m in perfect control,” I countered. “It’s Brett Junior over here who can’t keep his hands to himself.”
“I’m not yours.” Her baby blues blazed with fury. “Why would you say that to Brett?”
“You will be.”
The truth slipped out without warning or consent from my brain.
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I always get what I want.” I darted my tongue out, swiping it over my lower lip. “And I want you like I’ve never wanted anything in my life.”
If I thought she’d be done for at my unusual confession, I had another thing coming. She wasn’t one of the fangirls.
In fact, my answer seemed to piss her off even more.
She snatched a washcloth that hung over the faucet, cleaning Brett’s blood from the floor. “Was it really worth it?”
I didn’t want her touching anything that came from him, but I stopped myself from yanking the rag out of her fist. I needed to rein in this obsession before it spiraled out of control.
“Now you’ll get into trouble, and for what?” She sprayed an organic cleaning solution on the tile. “My ass has been pinched before. It always ends the same. With a shiner for the guy who did it and swollen knuckles for me.”
The mere thought of men thinking they could touch this woman without consent made me want to do heinous things. I needed names, addresses, and schedules. And knives.
Plenty of fucking knives.
“I won’t get in trouble.”
From the drawing room, Senior lost his shit at volcanic decibels. “How could you be so stupid?”
I jerked a thumb back in their direction as Jasper and Senior reprimanded Junior, proving my point.
“I’ll add a few million to sweeten the deal when I buy the company.” A grim, lopsided smile slashed my face. “That’s always been the plan. I lowballed them hard.”
“You treated me as an object. As a possession.” She paused to stab me with her glare. “I may work for you, but that’s where it ends.”
“Au contraire. It’s only the beginning. I have so many other plans for you.”
Her eyes tightened at the corners. “Zachary.”
“Farrow.”
She hurled the heavy, drenched rag into the sink. Blood splattered over the plates and mugs. “You got something to say to me?”
“Sure.”
I stalked to her, stopping just a foot shy.
Progress.
The column of her throat bobbed at the proximity.
I palmed my knife, fingered the bloodstained collar of her maid outfit with the tip of the blade, and flashed her a smirk. “You look good in red.”
With that, I left, making my way to the master bedroom.
Her crumpled Chuck Taylors squeaked against the marble floor. They stomped the steps behind me, loud and unapologetic.
Outside of parties and formal dinners, I didn’t even allow shoes in the manor. She’d ignored the rule from Day One.
We passed Junior without a word. He slumped against the post on the first step, getting stitched up by Ollie’s family doctor while his father and Jasper fussed over him.
Across the hall, Ollie, Rom, and Delhi laughed, glasses clinking, utensils hitting porcelain plates.
I jerked the golden handle to my bedroom open and slipped inside. It clicked shut behind Fae, who twisted the lock.
She followed me into the bathroom, where I flipped my faucet to its coldest setting and stuck my hands under. The water turned pink beneath the blood.
Our gazes tangled through the mirror. If she was freaked out about me slicing a man for almost cupping her ass, she certainly didn’t show it.
After I finished cleaning up, I waltzed into my closet and began unbuttoning my shirt. Farrow rested a hip on the doorframe, her uniform and bare legs still caked with blood.
Slowly, I rolled my shoulders down, aware of her eyes pinned on the fabric. It fell to the rug without a sound.
I stood shirtless before her like a statue in a private viewing, allowing her a few more moments to soak in my six-pack, the contours of my sculpted arms, and the deep V that ran into my slacks.
Her eyes widened like saucers. Heat pooled beneath my navel, all my blood rushing to my cock.
I knew that look. Wore it myself whenever I hunted for a deal.
She was hungry.
For me.
You have no idea, Little Octopus.
I’ll give you seconds and thirds. Desserts and snacks in between.
You are going to be so full of me, your pussy will be the shape of my dick.
The thought was as startling as the idea. I couldn’t even bring myself to touch her right now.
I broke the ice, snapping my fingers in the direction of her face. “My eyes are up here, by the way.”
We stood about ten feet away from each other. But unlike any other time, with anyone else, each foot felt like an entire continent.
“There’s nothing behind them.” She folded her arms. “Your torso is a much better view.”
I picked a crisp white button-down, slid the empty velvet hanger back on the rack, and padded to her, still shirtless. “You shouldn’t let anyone talk to you like Brett did. Or Oliver, for that matter.”
Her smile dropped. “They get away with it because they know they can. I’m not Dallas Townsend. I have no one to protect me.”
I slipped the fabric over my arms and took another step toward her. “Yes, you do.”
Then another, fastening a button with each stride.
“And who would that be?”
“Me.”
Silence clawed the air.
Then, I heard it.
Tinkling laughter bubbled from her throat like wedding bells carried by the wind.
It trickled straight into my stomach and burst in every direction from there. Only, it didn’t feel like butterflies.
It felt like bats from hell.
“What was that?” I demanded.
Her smile vanished—and so did the strange murmur inside my chest when she’d made that sound. It was not unpleasant. And did not feel like cardiac arrest.
I might have wanted it back.
She blinked. “What was what?”
“That sound.”
Her brows shot up to the edge of her hairline. “I… laughed?”
I noticed that her brows were a shade darker than her icy blonde locks. That they made her beauty wilder. More dramatic.
Her eyes, too, weren’t the traditional blue. They were pastel—the palest shade on the palette—rimmed by a navy circle.
It occurred to me that I could look at her face for hours on end without getting bored. Which was a preposterous thing, really.
Women usually bored me. Their faces, like their bodies, were interchangeable and entirely unexciting.
“Laugh again,” I ordered.
Her delicate brows crashed together. “Make me, then.”
“Impossible. I have no sense of humor.”
“Develop one.”
“It’s not a fucking film roll, Farrow. It’s going to take more than a couple hours.”
“Why do you need me to laugh, anyway?”
Because I felt something inside my chest, and I am desperate to feel it again.
It marked the first time since Dad had passed. And possibly the last.
But I wanted to try.
“Just do it.”
“Can’t fake it.” She shrugged, leaning back. “Though I bet you’re used to women faking things for you.”
No, I am not.
I never let them get close enough.
“I’m not funny. And neither are you, judging by your last joke.”
“Make an effort.” She tipped her chin up, maintaining eye contact. “You vowed to protect me. Said I was yours. Well, the path to a woman’s heart goes through her mouth. You have to make me laugh.”
It’s not your heart I’m after, I wanted to remind her.
Too bad she wasn’t Dallas Costa.
That mouth didn’t need any laughter. Just beignets.
We stood chest to chest now. Not touching, but close enough to do so if she tried. Which I wanted her to.
Desperately.
My heart was beating out of my chest, thump thump thump, trying to rip away from my arteries. I delved into my brain, struggling to conjure amusing things.
I didn’t laugh much. Or at all, to be honest. Very few things pleased me.
When I truly thought about it, Farrow topped the short list. Though I supposed making fun of her wouldn’t make her laugh.
“This is ridiculous.”
She tilted one shoulder up. “Not my fault you’ve never had to impress a girl in your life. Thirty-three is a good age to start.”
She’d Googled me. I’d never given her my age. This realization spread something hot inside my chest.
“When Ollie went to Oxford, he was initiated into Pierse Gav via a circle-jerk. Everybody masturbated into a cup, and the newbies had to drink it. He asked for seconds.”
Farrow gagged. “That’s not funny. That’s gross.”
“It is funny on two aspects. One—that Ollie is so ostentatiously decadent. And two—that he actually holds two degrees.”
He’d fucked off to England for his masters because he wanted to perform side research on European kinks for two years.
In other words, he wanted more leeway to fuck around without the peskiness of pretending to hold on to a job.
What little pity I was capable of, I reserved for Oliver von Bismarck’s future spawns. His life’s mission was to repopulate the world. One day, his children and grandchildren would wake up and realize their family tree was a wreath.
“If you have to explain the joke, it’s not funny.” She gave me a stern look as she copied my words. “Next.”
A ragged breath escaped me. No wonder comedians were always depressed. Humor exhausted me.
“I once ate a bag of oranges and suffered the consequences.”
“Again, gross. Not funny.”
I was becoming desperate, which both infuriated and thrilled me. Never in my life had I been desperate for anything.
“My aunt used to hide all her Birkins from her husband in the trunk of her G-Wagon. One time, she left the key in the ignition and someone stole the car. But they didn’t know they stumbled onto a goldmine of designer bags worth over one mil, so they dumped the bags on the side of the road. The cops recovered the bags and returned them to her.”
Farrow’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t laugh.
“Come on,” I snarled. “You almost laughed.”
“I also almost came when I had sex with Park Woo Bin on the roof of his dad’s skyscraper at seventeen. But I didn’t. Almost is the operative word here, Zach.”
I didn’t know who Park Woo Bin was.
I just knew he was a dead man walking.
“Laugh.” The command escaped as a strangled whisper.
“Make me,” she rasped, pushing her chest out so it almost touched my partially exposed torso.
I had no choice.
I had to take out the big guns.
Drawing a breath, I pivoted to a drawer, pulled it open, and sifted through a few photo albums, yanking out the one I needed. I removed a photo from its slot and returned to Farrow.
I dangled the photo by the tip as if it disgusted me (it did), handing it to her. She took care to grab it by the edge, remembering not to touch me.
“I’ve only lost a bet once.” I fastened the final button on my shirt, clearing my throat. “Oliver and Romeo made me dress up in leather head to toe.”
Pink leather.
My eyes clung to her face.
“God, Zach.” Her lips broke into the biggest smile I’d seen. “The pants are butt-less.”
“A souvenir from Ollie’s tertiary education. He returned from Europe convinced that pants are a conspiracy against buttholes everywhere.”
Laughter spilled from her mouth. It hit me straight in the chest. Again. Like an adrenaline shot directly to the heart.
I felt it working. Beating. Pumping blood. Thrashing against my sternum.
Fuck, it was addictive.
She was addictive.
Her laughter subsided, and she stared at me behind long lashes. “Happy?”
“As close as I can be,” I admitted. “Point is…”
I raised my hand, using my thumb to brush away a lock of hair from her eye. Hair was dead cells. Not flesh. Easier for me to handle.
And yet, we both stopped breathing.
Our gazes clashed. Held. Succumbed to an unrelenting trance.
“You are mine now, Farrow. To protect, to corrupt, to ruin. I won’t let anyone treat you badly. Least of all Brett.”
A hard swallow traveled down her throat. “What do you want in return?”
Everything, I thought. I want everything you have to give and beyond. Every inch of you. Every smile. Every laugh. Every breath. Every touch.
For the first time in my life, I craved more than just existing.
I wanted to truly let myself feel.
I ignored her question. “You should move in here. Forget about staying at your house to protect the deed. Under my guard, you’ll have it all. The home. The company. The keepsakes—other than the pendant. I’ll make a nice coat for you out of Vera and your stepsisters’ skin, if you wish.”
Her breasts rose and fell, full and sensitive and begging to be touched. The peaks of her nipples dug through the cheap fabric of her uniform. “No, thank you.”
“I’ll buy the house off her if I must,” I clarified.
“I get it, Zach. You throw money at problems, and they go away. I’m not one of them. Buying my affection won’t work. You’ll have to earn it.”
I wanted to laugh.
I’d earned so much in so little time in my life. Of all challenges, surely this was the one I was fully equipped to handle.
“I’m sorry.” I brushed my thumb along her cheek, wiping away a drop of Brett’s blood. Her eyes glittered as our skin touched. A shiver raced down my spine, an involuntary reaction, like cringing at the sound of a fork being dragged over a plate. “I truly am.”
“For what?” She was barely breathing.
“For dragging you into my own personal hell.” I kept my thumb on her cheek. “You are going to fix me, Farrow… So I can become someone else’s.”
